


these hands stained red

by gottabewhatomorrowneeds



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Blood, Dehumanization, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Manipulation, Mild Gore, Nonbinary Party Poison (Danger Days), Strippers & Strip Clubs, others are there but not focused on, things are only alluded to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24084907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gottabewhatomorrowneeds/pseuds/gottabewhatomorrowneeds
Summary: It’s hard to cut ties to a past that won’t leave you alone.Jet Star loses his eye.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	these hands stained red

Jet Star actually doesn’t mind firefights. He used to get super nervous over them, but now, he has a sort of resignation to the fact that he’ll have to kill a bunch of people for some grand revolution every other week. Probably a bit fucked up, but he’s been fighting in this desert since he learned how to use a gun when he was seven, and he’s been serving in this revolution under Dr. D since he was eleven. You get used to fucked yo shit after a decade of it.

He only loathes them when they involve Korse. 

The man has been assigned by BLi to take them all out, which is rather flattering, in a way, to know that BLi thinks of them as such a huge threat that they hired their best exterminator to exterminate them. Korse is dedicated to his job, but the goal doesn’t entirely seem to just be eradicate the Fab Four. He seems to be particularly fixated upon Party Poison.

Certainly, Jet Star didn’t particularly want to be the focal point of Korse’s simmering hatred that borders on a terrifying obsession. He did not necessarily want to be Korse’s singular target in every single fight he picks with them. He never wanted the attention of a homicidal, serial killer.

But it is sort of the principle of the matter, to be a bit miffed that the head of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W program only has interest in one of them. Yes, the entire group is of course BLi’s target; yes, they all need to be incinerated and BLi recognizes that; yes, they’re all stupidly infamous. But Korse doesn’t seem to care about anyone that’s not Party Poison, which kind of stings, because Party Poison isn’t more important than anyone else.

However, that’s not to say Jet wants to be in Party Poison’s position. He absolutely does not want that. He does not want to be stalked, like a gazelle being chased by a lion, by some man who has this weird obsession with them. He does not want to have Korse actively seek them out during every firefight, and insist upon separating them from their crew so they can fight one on one. No, Jet does not want that.

Jet knows why Party Poison has garnered Korse’s attention. All of the Fab Four knew Party Poison was going to be a focal point for trouble when they all found out they had been a big time exterminator under Korse’s apprenticeship. They just didn’t account for the idea that Korse would have a personal vendetta against their best friend.

In any case, he fucking hates shoot outs that involve Korse.

It’s not necessarily the physical damage that agitated him. They never leave those fights without some sort of injury, and while they’re not usually fatal, they’re not exactly scratches. They’ve broken more bones in fights with Korse than fights without him. They never leave the scene without a lot of their blood spilled, staining the desert sands.

It’s not that that miffs him. He’s seen blood, he knows pain. Hes been living in the desert for twenty years now- he’s been in enough firefights with people who could have been allies and people who were the enemy enough time to get acquainted with the feelings of blood loss and high heat burns. He’s still alive, still kicking, so it doesn’t matter much.

No, it’s the aftermath that he fucking hates.

Korse is known for being a master manipulator. That man has a way of making even some of the toughest killjoys crack under pressure. When BLi set him loose on the Fab Four, they weren’t just betting on the man’s brute capacity. They knew he knew how to get under people’s skin, how to turn people against each other. He might be fucked up on those drugs, but they don’t tamp down whatever intelligence he has.

And Party Poison is always the one receiving the brunt of his emotional manipulation.

Jet Star always does his damnedest to stay right beside Party Poison during a fight. It’s important to work in pairs, and they’ve just clicked better than anyone else. Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul are an extremely dangerous duo, but Jet Star and Party Poison are just as deadly. They make up for each other’s flaws- Poison has speed where Jet has strength. 

Korse always slinks after Poison, and always manages to get his claws on them. Jet Star is usually in a pretty close vicinity, and he sometimes hears the bullshit that gets spouted from Korse’s mouth. No matter how hard he tries, Jet can’t keep track of Party Poison in the haze of smoke and laser beams, so Korse always manages to snatch away Poison, always manages to lure them away from Jet.

Jet always, always, goes back for them.

Because he’s heard the awful words drip from Korse’s lips and he knows those awful, twisted lies cause worse damage than a blast to the heart.

He’s not too far away from Party Poison at the moment, right now. They were just coming back from hitting the market up at zone three, when Korse decided to drop by. The Dracs made sure to split them up as soon as possible. Still, he’s not close enough to stop them and Korse. There’s too many Dracs in his way, too many bodies to turn to corpses before he can help his friend. But he can hear their voices, loud and clear, despite all the gunshots.

Party Poison gets slammed into the trunk of a twisted Joshua tree. He can see blood smear the side of the tree when Poison’s head bounced off it. Korse is smiling at them, pinning them to the tree, his teeth gleaming in the light as he whispers his sickly lies.

“You had such a wonderful career,” Korse croons. “You were such a wonderful soldier. You made killing look as easy as tying a shoe. You were made to destroy, you know.”

“Yeah, destroy assholes like you.” Poison struggled under his grip, but the man was practically an android now. 

“Aren’t you tired of playing pretend? Aren’t you tired of being something you’re not? You’re not a killjoy, you know this. You can’t be.”

“I am- I am-“

“You’re just a plastic imitation of a human. A real cheap fake, trying to prove your humanity. You think that by switching sides, you can call yourself a hero, don’t you?”

Korse’s head leans in dangerously close. Party Poison snarls at him, but their struggling has begun to die off. “It’s rather entertaining, watching you try to pretend to be a person. You think you can feel. You think you have free will. You think you’re a person, and not some weapon. You’re just a grenade, a grenade that is meant to destroy. You’re a weapon.”

“I’m not a thing-“

“But you are. You’re not human like them. You can’t feel like them. You’ve been playing with guns and killing men thrice your size for so many, many years. What sort of human kills so many people they’re supposed to call their peers? What sort of human destroys?”

Poison falters. Korse smiles.

“You’re just a pretty little gun. You’re just a broken little toy soldier. Don’t you want to be fixed? Don’t you want to stop all this guilt? Don’t you just want everything to stop?”

Just a couple Dracs to go…

“Aren’t you tired of playing pretend? Aren’t you tired of constantly being afraid that your peers are going to turn on you, that they’ll see you as the monster you really are? Aren’t you tired of watching so many of your supposed peers die? And who are your peers, Party Poison? The killjoys who never trusted you, who think of you as the monster you are? Or the Dracs and exterminators you keep slaughtering in cold blood?

“Don’t you want to be fixed? Don’t you want to be better? It’s just so much easier to submit, to quiet down. You’ll forget all the horrors you’ve seen, you’ll have all this guilt you pretend to have washed away. You won’t feel anything anymore. But you already don’t, right? You’re just a weapon. Batteries don’t bleed, and weapons don’t feel.”

“Come on. Aren’t you tired of being broken?”

Jet Star can’t hear the words anymore, but he sees Korse’s lips next to Party Poison’s ears. Party Poison has their eyes squeezed shut, like they’re trying to block out his words by not looking at him. Jet Star’s blood curdles as he sends two blasts to the Drac on his left. They just need to hold out a little longer. He’ll get there.

“You can come home,” Korse states, his voice sickly sweet. “Any misgivings you’ve made, any mistakes, they’ll all be forgiven. You don’t have to prove yourself to us. We made you. We know your faults, and we can get rid of them. You don’t have to be broken anymore, little cherry bomb.”

Poison shivers at the pet name. Jet Star aims his gun at Korse’s shoulder, but has to move before a Drac shoots him in the ribs. He can’t fight Korse, he needs to focus, but his rage just keeps growing. That’s a nickname to be spoken from the Fab Four, by friends, not something to be defiled with Korse’s vile words.

“Don’t call me that.” It’s weak. Party Poison always wants to be the fearless, unbelievable and undefeatable leader, but they are fragile about their humanity. Years of being thought of as nothing but a cheap, renewable piece of plastic does something to a person. Poison’s been in the system since they were eleven, since they got snatched away from Kobra Kid because they were too rebellious. Since they got bleached, had every shred of their identity wiped away so BLi could mold them into a heartless weapon for six years, until Party Poison managed to break free from their claws last year.

“It’s an apt little nickname, you know. Even they know you’re nothing more than a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode at a moment's notice. You’re a weapon. You’re a weapon.”

“I’m not- I’m not a weapon-“

“You’re just a scrap of plastic-“

“I’m human-“

“You can’t feel, you can’t love, you’re just made to maim and kill-“

“I’m human…”

“Your only purpose is to destroy. Even on the side of the killjoys, that’s all you can do. Destroy the lives of those around you. Come home. You can be fixed. You can serve the right side.”

A hail of bullets takes out the last two Dracs. Jet Star immediately begins to head towards the tree. He’s been pushed back quite a bit away, and he’s lost the ability to listen into their conversation. Korse is still leaning into Poison’s space, his voice now a whisper in their ear. Poison is clutching the base of the tree, and Jet Star wishes he could see their face.

He aims his gun straight at Korse. He would fire, but he’s still dangerously close to Party Poison, and the whole reason he’s confronting this man is to keep Party Poison safe. If he fires, there’s a good chance it could hit them, too.

“Step away from them,” Jet commands. His gun is aimed right at his head. If the shot kills Korse, or even incompacitates him the slightest bit, it might be worth whatever pain Poison might feel. At least it’ll shut the bastard up.

Korse laughs. It’s quiet, mocking and condescending. He doesn’t move, and Jet Star begins to step closer. “I said, step away from them, or else I’m going to blow out your fucking brains.”

Korse moves from his spot, his back no longer facing Jet. Jet can see Party Poison’s face now, can see their hazy, unfocused eyes. Korse is still leaning against them, still touching them, and it revolts Jet Star. He hangs off of them, planting himself on their shoulder. A hand idly cards through their hair. Party Poison doesn’t say a word.

“It’s just another broken weapon,” Korse croons. He moves the hand not ruffling their hair to pat their cheek. “When you’re done with me, do you plan on finishing it off, too?”

“What- no!”

“It’s an extension of BLi. It’s still BLi’s little grenade. You have to destroy everything of BLi, including it.” He squeezes Party Poison’s shoulder.

“Don’t talk about them like that-“

“It’s just a piece of plastic. It’s designed by BLi. It’s time BLi reclaims what was once theirs.”

“You don’t own them. They’re not your little weapon!” Jet Star jabs his gun at Korse. “Get away from them! Now!”

Korse’s head leans right towards Poison’s neck. His lips graze their ear, and he keeps carding his fingers through their hair, like he’s petting some sort of dog. Jet Star’s stomach churns at the thought.

“Come on, now,” Korse whispers, soft, delicate. “Why don’t you do what you were made to do?”

Poison doesn’t say a word. Jet doesn’t know what to expect, what Korse means. For a long moment, the battlefield falls nearly completely silent. Shots are fired upon deaf ears. 

“Move away,” Jet growls. “Last warning.”

“Let it choose.” Korse grins into their ear.

Jet Star sucks in a deep breath. Korse is still way too close to Party Poison for the shot to not hurt them, too. But he hates whatever glassy eyed look is perched on their face, and if shooting Korse in the head will make it stop, then he thinks any physical damage will be a small price to pay. He cocks his gun, and electricity hums threateningly.

Just as he aims his gun, about to pull the trigger, a blur catches his eyes.

Party Poison stares him down from the barrel of their gun.

They stare at each other. Jet Star just blinks, staring at their face. There’s absolutely no emotion in their expression, no remorse nor fear nor hesitation. They’ve long ago perfected that heartless mask from years of training as a soldier. Their eyes are hollow.

The only hint of emotion is the way the gun trembles in their hand. 

Korse smiles at Jet Star’s expression. He keeps running his fingers through their hair, like he’s trying to sooth them, like he’s petting a wild animal. His other hand comes back up and cups their cheek. Jet can hear their breath catch.

“Well, look at that,” he croons. “Let it think for itself, and look what happened.”

“Party Poison,” Jet tries. “Please, you can’t listen to him.”

“He never cared about you,” Korse whispers into their ear. “He only cares about how you can serve them. The minute he finds you faulty, he won’t even bother fixing you. He’s going to toss you to the scrap heap. He’s going to get rid of you, and so will Fun Ghoul, and the Kobra Kid. They’ll leave you behind.”

“That’s not true! You’re not some sort of weapon or whatever! You’re a person!”

“You’re a gun they never loaded. They don’t trust you, they don’t love you. Who could ever love a weapon?”

“You’re human! You’re human!”

“You’re a weapon.”

“You’re alive! You’re human! You think! You feel! You love! You’re human.”

“You’re just plastic.”

Party Poison begins to choke. They don’t cry, they can’t cry. Their tear ducts had been long ago fucked up by BLi to make them even less human. They choke on a sob that has no tears, and Korse smiles even sharper at that.

“Look at that. You can’t even cry. Not so human, after all.”

Party Poison squeezes their eyes shut. The gun quavers, harshly. Jet finds this to be an opening, and he takes a risk.

Two things happen when he pulls the trigger of his gun.

A bolt of electricity strikes Korse. It snags his neck and part of Party Poison’s shoulder. Korse grips Party Poison tightly to keep from falling over, and blood gushes out from his neck. It won’t kill him, but it isn’t exactly just a scratch.

When the air becomes charged with electricity, a second bolt fills the air. Party Poison drops their gun just after they shoot, and the shot manages to nick the side of Jet Star’s head. Party Poison’s eyes flutter open when their gun hits the sand, and they jolt away from Korse’s touch.

Jet Star crumbles to the ground, keeping his hold on his gun tight. A searing, molten hot pain travels through his entire skull, and he wants to scream in agony. He can’t open one of his eyes.

Party Poison is on his side. They’ve crouched down right next to him, and the gun in his hand gets shifted into new hands. It’s a terrible, terrible thought that only blinks across his pain-addled mind, but he can’t help but wonder if Poison wasn’t there to finish the job.

Instead, with his one good eye, he sees them point Jet’s gun straight at Korse. Their chest is heaving as they whisper a single word. “Run.”

It’s a threat as much as it is a warning. There’s a split second pause that seems to stretch for days as Korse hesitates. He’s soaking in their surroundings, calculating the odds of this battle. But the gun shots in the background have faded into almost nothing, and he can hear Fun Ghoul and Kobra Kid cheering in victory. The battle is over.

Korse knows this. And like a coward, he flees.

Party Poison fires the gun. Shot after shot sounds off as they keep their eyes on Korse’s retreating form, as they squeeze the trigger, as their knuckles begin to turn white from holding the gun so tight. He can’t tell if any of them hit Korse, can only hear how frantic and sporadic they sound. Quietly, he places a hand on their arm, trying to get them to stop.

Poison immediately drops the gun at his touch. It lands on the ground with a quiet thud, and Poison turns their attention on to Jet. Jet can feel himself fading, can feel reality begin to bend and fray at the edges. Poison clutches the hand that touched their arm, wiping Jet Star’s hair out of his face.

“Stay with me, Jet,” they whisper.

He can hear the sounds of Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul arriving on the scene, the mismatched pattern of their footsteps and the crunching of sand. Kobra Kid gets there first, because of his longer stride, but Ghoul isn’t far behind. He can see their blurry shapes hovering behind Poison.

“Holy shit!” Fun Ghoul shouts. Kobra Kid looks distinctly green.

Party Poison is choking back sobs as they open up their medical kit. Jet Star watches them for a few moments, feeling his eyes droop close as his consciousness begins to slip and slide. The last thing he sees before he fades off is the way Party Poison’s hair glows in the shimmer of the sun.

-

Jet Star jolts awake.

“Woah! Woah!” Not so gentle hands try to push him back down. Everything’s blurry for a few seconds, and Jet doesn’t have the strength to push away the mystery hands, so he lays flat on whatever he’s laying on. “Calm down, bud. You definitely don’t want to be moving around too much.”

Jet blinks a few times, trying to get rid of the fog his brain feels submerged in. Oh, his right eye definitely feels weird. Blinking should not feel that way.

Slowly, the awkward blurs begin to have meaning. Shapes begin to form, and he begins to see clear details of his surroundings. He’s in the diner, in his room, on the couch they pilfered from a dumpster. Fun Ghoul is hovering over him, one hand still clasped on his arm, like he’s trying to ground him. Kobra Kid is to his left, his expression pinched in relief.

“Fuck man,” Ghoul begins. “Man, I am glad to see you awake. You woke up a couple of times during and after the surgery, do you remember?”

“Surgery?” He repeats. The word feels weird on his tongue, his throat scratchy like he hasn’t used it in days.

“Yeah?” Kobra and Ghoul share a look. “How much do you remember?”

Jet squeezes his eyes shut. “We were in a bad firefight with Korse and some Dracs. We got separated. I was trying to help Party Poison fight off Korse.”

“Yeah. Korse nailed you in the eye with his gun. Party Poison managed to stabilise you after chasing him off. They…”

Jet winces. Korse didn’t shoot him.

“We didn’t have enough time to get you to the Paradise Hotel, to get you better medical treatment and shit. We got you back to the diner, and you were in and out of consciousness. We had some pain killers left from the time Kobra broke both his legs. And then…”

Kobra’s face is completely green. He doesn’t mind killing Dracs, but blood makes him queasy. “Poison took out your eye. It was completely fried”

Jet’s hand immediately fluttered to his face. He felt a cloth eye patch where his eye should be. Oh. Oh, oh god. His eye.

“Yeah. It… uh, it was not fun to watch.” Ghoul shake his head. “Anway, Poison managed to sort of fix you up. But… you’re missing an eye now.”

Jet begins to pull at the eyepatch. Kobra’s hand stops him in his tracks, his fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I really don’t recommend taking that off. First off, the next time you look in the mirror, it’s not going to be a pretty sight. Secondly, I think you gotta keep it on for a couple days. Poison said something about that.”

“Hey, speaking of which, now that you’re like, lucid.” Ghoul leans on the arm of the couch. “What happened during that fight with Korse? Poison won’t talk to us about it, but they’re really fucked up, man. What’d that asshole do? We can’t even get them to confirm Korse shot you.”

Jet Star swallows. He doesn’t like lying, doesn’t like erasing the truth, but this is a fine line. They only just found out Party Poison had been an exterminator not too long ago, and Ghoul’s trust in them has only just begun to resurface. He doesn’t want to erase all that hard work with Party Poison’s mistake.

“Where’s Party Poison?” Jet settles on. 

“Off being an asshole.” Kobra sighs. “After they took out your eye, they dipped out of here. We tried to stop them, but, I don’t know. They were acting like a caged animal. Thought it was best to give them space. It’s been two days, though.”

Jet Star rubs his fingers through his hair. Two days. “You need to find them.”

“What happened?” Ghoul tried again.

“I need to talk to them.”

“What happened?” Ghoul repeated, firmer.

“They’re blaming themself for my eye,” Jet Star states. “We gotta pull them out of that fucking pity party. I’ll give you all the details after I talk to Party Poison.”

Kobra leaned into the wall. “Well, where does Party Poison go when they’re feeling especially self destructive?”

“Bullets,” Jet answers. Ghoul grimaced at the mention of the nightclub where they first found Poison in, slumming around as a Neon Angel. Old habits die hard.

“We’ll go get them.” Ghoul rubs his face. “They’re probabaly wasted as hell.”

“They don’t drink,” Kobra argues. “Remember?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t lapse on that resolve after this.” Ghoul shrugs. “Okay, Kobra, you stay with Jet, I’ll get Party Poison.”

“Nope.” Jet immediately tries to get back up. Kobra hovers by him, tries to push him back down, but Jet manages to keep himself upright. “Nope, I’m coming with you.”

“Jet, don’t be stupid.”

“I need to talk to them,” Jet pleads. “I need to be there. Trust me.”

“Dude, you just had surgery. You probably can’t even walk properly, your depth perceptions all fucked.”

“I don’t care.” Jet Star begins to get off the couch. Kobra whispers for him to stop, tugs at him a bit, but Jet ignores him. “Come on. You have to bring me along.”

Ghoul remains silent. They stare at each other for a few moments, equally fierce about their stance. It’s one of those rare times where Jet Star isn’t the older brother, where Ghoul is trying to protect and baby him. It’s odd. It’s kind of nice.

Ghoul takes a deep breath. “Okay, okay. We’ll all go.”

“Poison stole my bike,” Kobra mutters, a little pissed. “Since Jet can’t fucking see, and you can’t reach the pedals, I’ll drive the am.”

Ghoul punches Kobra’s shoulder. “Shut up!”

Jet smiles.

-

Bullets is rattling, the thrum of the bass and the drums causing the flimsy walls to shake like they’re facing an earthquake. Neon lights bleed out from the open windows and the cracks of doors, and there are couples making out on the steps that lead to the front of the club. It’s a trashy place, in all honesty, but Newsagogo and Hot Chimp designed it to be.

Jet Star wobbles inside. The bright lights are giving him a tight migraine, and he feels awfully lethargic, but he won’t admit it. The three of them push past the bodies grinding against each other, against the waves of flesh moving along to some old Mad Gear EP. Hot Chimp beams down at them from her DJ set up, taking a pause to wave before she keeps scratching the record.

“Heya,” she greets. “Here to collect your kid?”

Ghoul smirks. “Yeah, where’s the baby at?”

“You’re like, two months older than us,” Kobra mutters. Ghoul sticks his tongue out at him, and Jet rolls his eyes. 

Hot Chimp waves towards the curtain behind her. “If they’re not on the dance floor, I think we all know where they’re at. Tell them to stop hogging the good room.”

Jet Star and the rest slink past Hot Chimp. The curtain whooshes back into place as they move towards the back of the club. This part isn’t the dance floor, it’s a sort of private section for those who want more than just some grinding, called the Lover’s Corner. There’s a couple of rooms with beds that are a free-for-all and the part in the very, very back is where the Neon Angels live.

Jet Star never liked going back here. There’s a haze of smoke from a woman’s cigarette in the first room that fills the entire section with a strange haze. Beaded curtains that are clearly homemade dangle from doorways, the only separation between the room and the hallways. There’s blood staining the floors, and Jet Star tries to ignore the sounds of a couple to his left.

It’s almost completely dark back here, a sharp change of pace from the neons of the party. When you head into the Lover’s Corner, it’s not to look your partner in the eye, it’s not to look at them at all. It’s to meet with some faceless stranger and make a skin to skin connection that won’t mean anything to either of them the morning after.

There’s only one room with a door that doesn’t connect to the Neon Angel’s living quarters. Jet Star tries it, knocking as loud as he can. A couple behind them protests his disruption, but he doesn’t care.

“Maybe later,” a voice calls. It’s definitely Party Poison. Their voice sounds rough and raw. 

Fun Ghoul opens his mouth, but Jet Star places a hand on his shoulder. “Can you leave Poison and me alone? Please?”

Fun Ghoul squints. Kobra Kid reverently nods- he doesn’t want to see whatever the fuck his younger twin has gotten themself into. Kobra steers Ghoul away from the door, and that’s when Jet Star cracks the door a bit, but not all the way. He’s done that before, and he’s regretted it ever since. “It’s me, Poison.”

There’s scuffling. Hushed whispers, the sounds of another door closing. Silence settles, thick over the tense air. The music from the club drifts, muffled but completely intelligible. 

“Star,” Poison croaks. Jet Star takes that as his cue to come in.

He quietly makes his way inside the room. Immediately, he bumps into the bed. He nearly trips over the blankets and clothes sprawled across the floor. Everything is much dimmer than it should be, and the haze isn’t from the smoke. Jet Star almost topples on to the bed, but stops himself. Fucking depth perception.

He crouched beside the bed, trying to focus. Party Poison is laying there, curled up in a ball, the sheets sticking to them. Their red hair still manages to glow from the lights of the party that manages to pilfer through the cracks. They don’t have on a mask, just a gaudy, unmodest outfit he’s sure they’ve been slumming in for the past few days.

“Are you drunk?” Jet asks.

“No, you know I don’t drink.”

“Just checking.”

They’re quiet for a few seconds. He keeps staring at Party Poison, who’s staring right back with hollow, hollow eyes. There’s purple lipstick kiss stains trailing their collarbone and neck, and that purple has blended into the neon blue of the lipstick on their own lips. Glitter glimmers in their hair, and Jet has the urge to shake it out.

“I’m sorry,” they whisper. It’s like a flood opens, and Party Poison’s voice cracks. “I’m so, so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to do it- I shouldn’t have listened to him- I should have been stronger- it was instinct- I shouldn’t have- I didn’t want to- I-“

Jet Star places a hand over theirs. Party Poison jerks away. There’s a weird lethargic air to them, even as their arm practically snaps in half to get away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t get near me.”

“Party Poison…”

“You can’t trust me. I shot you. I hurt you. I hurt you.” They start to repeat that, softly, the words sour on their lips. It’s like a mantra, soft and whispered in the air.

“I don’t blame you-“

“You should, you should. I pulled the trigger, I hurt you, I hurt a friend.” Poison begins to scoot away to the other side of the bed. “I hurt you. I hurt you. That’s all I can do.”

“Don’t listen to what Korse says-“

“I did! I already did!” Poison grabs the sheets tightly, twisting. “I listened! I hurt you! He’s right!”

“This isn’t your fault!”

“I can’t stop hurting people. I can’t stop hurting people. I’m just some- I’m just a weapon.” Their voice is dejected, somber, resigned. 

“You are not a weapon.” Jet’s voice is firm. He places his hand back on theirs and holds it tight. Poison jerks, but Jet Star keeps his hold. “You are not a weapon.”

“I am. I am. All I ever do is hurt people. That’s what I was taught to do. That’s all I know.” They can’t cry, they can’t cry because BLi fucked them up so much to make them seem as inhuman as possible, but Jet Star can hear the quiet sobs that threaten to escape their throat. “I can’t change. I can’t change. Korse is right. I’m just a fucked up gun.”

“You are not a thing,” Jet Star emphasises. “You’re human. You’re so, so human. Humans make mistakes. And humans feel remorse after it. You feel remorse, don’t you?”

“Yes! No!” Poison clutches their hair. “I don’t know! I can’t feel!”

“Yes, you can. You know Korse is just trying to fuck with you, just trying to get under your skin. BLi is wrong. Korse is wrong. You aren’t just a piece of metal to get scrapped, you aren’t just some weapon. You’re so, so human.”

“I’m sorry,” Poison sobs. “I never wanted this life. I never wanted to hurt you. Please, I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know. I know. Korse manipulated you. I don’t blame you.”

“But I shot you! And you’re missing an eye and I fucked everything up again, like I always do, and I left you when you needed me and I fucked you up and I fucked everything up-“

“I’m not angry with you.” In that moment, when he had been shot, yeah, he’d been a little pissed. He’d been a little shocked, afraid his friend had turned from him. But he knows it’s not just the pills that fuck up the citizens in the city. He knows manipulation and propaganda can leach far under their skin and keep hold for far longer. “Korse made you do it.”

“I didn’t want to.”

Jet Star quietly climbs into the bed. It’s hot as hell, but he forces his way into the spot next to Party Poison. There’s fear in their eyes, and they try to back into the wall. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not a weapon,” Jet Star whispers. He holds their shaking hands, keeps his voice soft. “Weapons don’t fix their mistakes. Weapons don’t fix, period. They just destroy. But you saved me, Party Poison. You shot me, but you also saved me. If it wasn’t for you, I would have bled out in the desert. You fixed me.”

Poison chokes. “I hurt you.”

“And you fixed me. Guns only shoot. Bombs only incinerate. Fires only burn. People can do all that, too. But people can heal. And you did.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

They bury their head in his chest. They’re not crying, not crying but they are. No tears stain their face nor leak into his shirt, but he can feel their anguish all the same. He holds them tight against his chest, holds them tight and close.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. He has the urge to run his fingers through their hair, to try to soothe them, but the memory of Korse petting them like some dog stops his fingers in their tracks. “It’s okay.”

“I’m human,” they whisper. “I’m human.”

“You’re human,” he murmurs back. “Incredibly human.”

Party Poison repeats the phrase like it’s their only lifeline. It’s so soft, so quiet, so simple. Jet Star just keeps his hold on them tight, keeps his head on top of theirs, keeps them together and grounded. 

“Why are you here?” He whispers. “Why’d you go back to Bullets?”

“I needed to feel,” Poison whispers back. “I needed to forget. I needed to feel human.”

“Did it work?”

“It never does.”

It’s self destructive. To be at Bullets, to surround themself in this place, to lure others into a bed with them. But that’s all Party Poison knows, how to be destructive. That’s all they were taught.

Being a Neon Angel only worsened the idea that they weren’t human, weren’t anything more than a thing. It’s a job for some people, and there’s no judgment there, but not for them. Not when some of their clients pretended they weren’t nothing more than a piece of plastic.

But it’s the first thing Party Poison ever became. It’s the first thing they did in the desert, the first thing that lead to them creating an identity. So they fall back on it. 

Jet Star rubs their back. It’s soundless between the two of them, with the exception of Party Poison’s haggard breathing. They just lie in that bed together, laying on those sweat stained sheets in the dark, listening.

“You didn’t ask for this life.”

“No.”

“You grew, Party Poison. You’ve changed. You’re good. You’re human.”

Poison shudders. “I’m sorry.”

Jet Star buries his face in the crook of their neck. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to do it.”

“I know.”

They lay there silently, Jet Star holding them tightly. The bass thrum rattled the walls, the neon lights of the party filter through the air, and yet it feels like they are the only two people in the entire desert, in the entire world.

“I won’t let him near you ever again,” Jet Star whispers. “I promise.”

Party Poison just hugs him back, squeezes him tight. It’s what they want to hear, but Jet Star will make sure to fulfill his end of the promise. But right now, he just has to be there with them. That’ll be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> idk
> 
> anyway i didn’t explicitly state the ages but if u would like to know: Jet is twenty, Ghoul is nineteen, Kobra & Poison r twins and are eighteen


End file.
